Backstage 33: Hungry Like the Wolf
by Aadler
Summary: There was an unexpected reunion in London. Then came the morning after.
1. Part 1

**Hungry Like the Wolf**  
>(the Red Roses Remix)<br>by Aadler  
><strong>Copyright April 2011<strong>

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Characters from <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer<em> and _Angel: the Series_ are property of Joss Whedon,  
>Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.<p>

**This story is a remix (done for RemixRedux 9)  
>of "An American Werewolf in London", by SunnyD_lite<strong>.

* * *

><p>Part I<p>

There was a naked woman in the cell. This was no casual drunk-tank, either, but a serious cage: metal frame secured to concrete by three-quarter-inch bolts spaced four inches apart, as were the bars, with a tape line as an outside perimeter, presumably to indicate safe approach distance. Door hinges every bit as massive as the bars. Two separate locks for the door, set far enough apart that — as with the firing console at a missile silo — its operation would require two individuals turning two keys simultaneously. The assemblage clearly had been designed to hold a formidable and irascible predator. Which, no doubt, said something about its current occupant.

Xander looked away from the fittings of the cage and back to said occupant. Sure enough, still there and still naked. While a distant part of him marveled at the fact that this kind of thing no longer struck him as especially unusual, most of his focus was on her body. To wit, seeing if he could spot any of the inevitable signs of demon-ness … because he was who he was, and new and interesting women? always demons, of one kind or another.

Seated on the small bed-platform bolted to the wall, she looked back at him with a self-possession he couldn't help envying, her only concession to her nudity a slight turn of her body that allowed her, by crossing of her legs and relaxed placement of one arm, to mask full-frontal exposure. "So," she said to him. "Am I just here as a safeguard to protect others, or am I an actual prisoner?"

Xander shook his head. "Sorry, no idea. I didn't even know anybody was down here. But I can ask." (And definitely would.) He lifted an eyebrow, the one over his remaining eye, and added, "Any particular reason folks might need protecting from you?"

"Two reasons," she replied, even and matter-of-fact. "Direct harm: I might kill or maim someone. And … unwelcome lifestyle change, if I only bit them." She saw realization dawn, and confirmed, "Yep. Werewolf. And dealing with it, but I don't want to infect anyone else if I can help it."

"Huh," Xander said. "But … Well, we kind of keep track of these things in my line of work, and isn't the full moon supposed to be next week?"

"It is," she agreed. "It really is. Which is why I felt okay going out for an evening at the theater. Only, something happened. I don't know what, I just remember realizing what was going on and rushing out of there as fast as I could, trying to get some distance from crowds before the change set in all the way." She grimaced. "Probably not really possible in the middle of London. Um … when you go to ask about me, can you find out if they know whether I hurt anyone?"

"I'll do that," Xander said, nodding. He pulled the zipper down on his windbreaker, shucked out of the garment, and tossed it to the concrete floor a few inches in front of the bars. "I'll also ask them to bring you some clothes, but you can use this till then."

"Thank you," she said, without stirring from where she sat. Right; she'd wait till he was gone before shifting from that protective position. All the same, she showed no obvious sign of discomfort at her relative vulnerability. "There's nobody here to do proper introductions," she observed, "so I guess it's up to us. My name is Nina. Nina Ash."

"Xander Harris," he returned. "And, which I figure you'll have noticed already, fellow American."

She smiled briefly. "Fellow Californian, from the sound of it."

_"Oh,_ yeah," Xander agreed. A pause followed and, realizing that his continued presence was preventing her from moving to take possession of the windbreaker, he said, "So I'll, uh … I'll go ahead and get on that whole clothes thing."

As he turned to start toward the stairs, she said, "Just for the record, are you evil?"

Xander looked back. "Always good to get that set straight at the beginning," he acknowledged. "Far as I know, I'm not. I mean, these things can sneak up on you, but I try to watch out for that." He paused. "You?"

"Like you said," she returned. "I'm trying not to be, and so far I don't see any … any really big warning signs." Again the rueful grimace. "What kind of world is it where we can ask a question like that as a regular part of dealing with someone, and neither one of us can give a flat, confident 'No'?"

"Our world," Xander said, and went up the stairs.

The man at the front desk was in his mid-to-late twenties, in clothes that weren't tweed but communicated the same general effect: Watcher-trained but short of full membership, brought in because the Sunnydale survivors had needed _some_ kind of support, and resentful (not at all subtly) of the Colonial interlopers who had somehow wound up in command. He had insisted on seeing Xander's credentials before allowing initial entry, which was both understandable and desirable in an organization that had seen its entire senior leadership _blown up_barely two years before; the undercurrent of looking-down-his-nose, on the other hand, had been neither practical nor appreciated. It was there again now, even stronger, as Xander emerged from the stairwell and approached the desk. "Ye-e-es?" he drawled, in tones that resonated with all the presumed and nonexistent authority of Sunnydale 1999 Wesley.

"So, Nigel," Xander said briskly. "You know you've got a woman locked up downstairs without any clothes?"

The Watcher wannabe stiffened, and his expression shifted from 'the trade entrance is in the back' to 'what _is_ this I stepped in?' Drawing himself up, he began, "My name —"

"Not caring here, Dudley," Xander interrupted. "The point is, you have a _naked woman,_ locked up, out where anybody can stroll by for a look-see. Fix that, right now."

"Ah," the not-Watcher said, as part of the information filtered through. "So the creature has resumed human form."

"The creature has a name," Xander shot back. "As for the human part, yeah, that's what happens to a werewolf _when the sun comes up._Which, in case you haven't noticed …" He waved toward the entrance, where daylight seeped in through a small inset window.

"Not a werewolf, no," the man corrected pedantically. "The days of the full moon are almost a week away, so we are dealing with a wolf demon, or a shapeshifter, or —"

"Or an animagus, or Rahne Sinclair, or Beast Boy's baby sister, I don't give a good goddamn." Xander heard his voice rising, and stopped to draw a steadying breath; anger was okay, but anger without control, not so much. "Look, Reginald, I'm not saying let her go; she knows, herself, that she's in there for a reason, and she knows we'll want to scope the whole situation before we swing open the gates. — Which, by the way, second order of business is to get me a full report on her: where and how she was captured, appearance and behavior while she was transformed, any other useful info, plus you'll want to check background on Nina Ash, California, USA." He put his hands on the desk, leaned forward until his face was less than a foot from that of the other man. "But the first order of business, Percy, the _very first thing,_is for you to get some clothes down to her, pronto, else I'll pull yours off you and toss you out into the street before I take 'em down to her. So, we have an understanding here?"

~ – ~ – ~

The near-obliteration of the Council of Watchers, the collapse of Sunnydale, and the expansion of the Slayer line, had together brought about so many changes that it had been nearly impossible to keep track of them all. In fact, Xander hadn't even tried, it had been more a matter of riding the wave to keep from being sucked under. Then the aftermath had taken him around the world, operating both solo and in tandem with people he'd never known before, with the constant shifts in venue and personnel serving to mask a difference he would have been disinclined to recognize in the first place. It wasn't just his locale that had changed, his occupation, his duties, his enthusiasm (limited now) for living to see another day … No, people were treating _him _differently.

Very differently.

Men watched him with wary assessment, women with hooded or open speculation. It wasn't respect, _per se_: some of the characters he dealt with went directly for a panga or an AK-47, and some of the women edged around him at a careful distance; among those given to more restrained behavior, there was still argument and disagreement and sometimes open refusal to cooperate … but the difference was there all the same, and after a long while Xander finally realized that he was being treated _seriously._

After an even longer while, he decided it was the eye-patch.

He still acted as he always had, approaching every task with the same lack of confidence and the same camouflage of self-deprecating humor. The difference was, previously it had served as deflection, or at best substitution: don't despise me, just laugh at me. Now he delivered the same spiel and people looked at the eye-patch and thought, _Yeah, right._ The guy who could make lame jokes about being a goof, a Zeppo, a hopeless but entertaining space-filler? not the same as the combat-scarred veteran who made light of danger.

Even if they were **exactly** the same guy.

So, he wasn't really different but he was getting different results. Xander wasn't going to change who he was — couldn't — but he had enough sense to use the tools at hand.

Case in point.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he announced as he walked into the compact auditorium, and continued speaking while he stepped up onto the slight raised area that served as a stage. "Thought I could rustle up some handy visual aids before time to get started, but apparently a guy needs depth perception to find the door to the storage area." He looked over the group of trainees who had been gathered to hear some pearls of wisdom from The Man In The Field (right): couple of dozen, maybe thirty, and regarding him with expressions that ranged from studiously neutral to frankly curious. "So, yeah, no show and tell. I guess that just leaves Tell."

No response, aside from some shifts and murmurs and doubtful glances at one another. Okay, he wasn't going to get any help here. Fortunately, Xander had his own strategy for dealing with fear of public speaking: imagine the audience with fangs.

"What I really wanted — and I knew _that_ wasn't gonna be in your basement, wasn't even looking for it, but what I really wanted — was a video clip from _Blade: Trinity_. Namely, the part where Jessica Biel makes her appearance with the fake baby. So, all right, trolling with live bait; that works, I've been there, I've been the _bait._ And deception, that's good, too. But everything after that …"

He stopped, surveyed the audience again. "Okay, I know, you're all too educated and Continental to waste your time on silly American trash, right? Especially since you're the ones who know what vampires are _really_ like. But, come on, people are people; after a day cataloguing grimoires and cross-referencing prophecies, you _have_ to want to kick back and relax a little. Back in Sunnydale, we did it with undubbed Bollywood and bad kung-fu flicks. So does anybody here ever get together with a cask of ale and a bucket of chips, and poke fun at über-dumb vampire movies?"

Finally, finally, a response; a gawky young man raised a tentative hand, and then a guy-girl couple sitting together, and then there were shared smiles and some low chuckles and everyone seemed to relax a little. Going good. "Right," Xander went on. "So, Jessica and Baby Garlic. Now, she did some things right. She lured her targets to a secluded spot. Gave 'em lots of reasons to underestimate her. Hit 'em with things they weren't expecting: again, Baby Garlic, plus special weapons. But she did **so much** that was wrong. Even another chance to ogle _la Biel_ isn't enough to keep me from cringing every time I see it."

He ticked items off on his fingers. "She took on four vamps without back-up. She let them lay hands on her before she started playing her trump cards. She _traded punches_ with a couple of them, instead of going straight to weapons. She struck a dramatic pose, and stalked after the ones who were still alive like she was the apex predator and they were a rung below her on the Bad-o-Meter. Short form, she acted like a Slayer … but she wasn't, she was trained and equipped and motivated and all of those things are important, but none of 'em are enough. Not nearly enough."

He had engaged the audience sufficiently that one of them, the female member of the couple who had responded to his previous query, was willing to speak now. "The … erm, the vampire hoodlums in that scene weren't as powerful as we know true vampires to be. And it's common knowledge, or at least widely reputed, that you have … have personally fought vampires, yourself."

"Both things true," Xander agreed. "But the script writers making vampires weaker, just so Jessica could look more awesome, that's one of the things that sets me off. As for my own misspent youth, hey, I can identify all the Really Stupid Things you shouldn't be doing because I've done pretty much all of 'em. I'm still alive due solely to freak chance and God's weird sense of humor. Can't expect that to last, or for it to work even a second for anybody else."

"Our education was, er, interrupted, by the recent unpleasantness regarding the established Council." The speaker was a taller, ginger-haired version of Freddie Iverson, but with a different accent and a precise courtesy that Freddie couldn't have even recognized, much less duplicated. (And 'unpleasantness' was certainly understatement for the higher Council being completely wiped out.) "We have been made aware, however, that engaging vampires '_mano a mano_' is not part of a Watcher's normal duties."

"I can believe it," Xander replied. "I worked with Giles and Wesley, and even got some exposure to Gwendolyn Post, Mrs. None of 'em were shy about jumping into the fray when it had to be done — well, Wesley was, a little, but I hear he got over that after he landed in L.A. — but they all focused mostly on directing and supporting and backing up the Slayer. So, yeah, I know how it's always worked before. But things have changed now."

He started pacing the small stage, looking to one and then another of them as he walked. "The Slayer line has opened out. You know that. Almost all the senior Watchers are dead now; I _know_ you know that. Used to be, you could pick out the best possible Watcher and send him — or her, Mrs. Post was seriously scary so I know women can be good Watchers — to supervise the only Slayer. Now, we've got over a thousand known Slayers and less than a thousand not-yet-Watchers … We're strapped, people, we're desperate, we need everybody we can get. We've already weeded out the obvious misfits and incompetents, so unless somebody screws up and washes out in the next couple of weeks, _every one_ of you, and everybody like you in centers all over Europe, will be assigned a Slayer and sent out into the field.

"Some of you won't be able to cut the mustard once you get there. The ones that survive, we'll bring back to man the desks while we try to manufacture replacements. If you show any talent at all, though, you'll probably be given _extra_ Slayers to look after. But, bottom line, you're absolutely going out on the firing line. And right now, folks, we — you and me, the normal ones, the non-supernatural, the pit crew — we're the weak link.

"The bad guys know that. They know there's lots more super-powered girls out there hunting them now, but they also know those girls don't have as much quality back-up as the Lone Slayer used to get. Because there aren't as many of us, and because we're just not as good as lifelong Watchers like Giles. So some of the vamp crews and demons and cultists will try to hit the Slayer at her most vulnerable point, and that's us.

"The reason I'm wasting your time talking about the wrong way to fight vampires? It's because you _will_ have to fight, probably more than any Watcher's had to do since the Dark Ages — well, except Giles, but he's a total overachiever — and I want you to know the mistakes before you learn 'em all the hard way, like I did."

Again Red Freddie was the one to speak. "If one must fight vampires, then, how is one to do so?"

"Good caveat there, Trevor. 'If one must fight' … yeah, the first thing you have to remember for fighting vampires is, don't fight vampires. That's what the Slayer is for. But if you _have_ to fight vampires, you still don't fight them." Xander grinned at the blank looks. "Nope, doesn't make much sense, does it? But that really is how it works. You fight a vampire, you'll lose. They're too strong, too fast, too vicious … you can hurt one, but you can't really _damage_ him unless you're lucky or he's dumb. Which, fortunately, most of them are, but that only goes so far. Some of the newer ones, they still hold onto the reflexes from their breathing days; even if they're five times as strong as you and three times as fast, they have to _remember_ to be, and so for the first few seconds you're not taking on a demon from Hell, you're just up against the strongest, spryest, quickest, meanest enemy you've ever faced in your life. Pile on everything you've got, you can stop one, stagger him, take him down, even."

He stopped to face them, cocked his head, shrugged. "And then he jumps up again and kills you, because while you were pulling out all the stops, you were just keeping him busy and tiring yourself out. If you get that far, it's 'cause he hasn't even started yet. So the trick is, finish him before then."

He smacked his fist into his palm for emphasis. "You _don't fight a vampire._ You let the Slayer fight him. Or you kill him without warning. Or, if you can't take him unawares, you give him the desperate hopeless human fight he's expecting, and _then_ kill him without warning. Cheat. Cheat every way you can. Use weapons. Hide weapons that you can get to quick, and practice getting them out without a slip. Never show a weapon till the split-second before you use it. Throw holy water on him. Douse yourself with holy water so it burns him to take hold of you. Spit holy water in his face. Carry a wooden cross with a sharpened end, push him back with it or burn him with it and then stake him with the end while you're close enough. But do it _fast._

"Bullets will slow a vampire, but that's all they'll do and they're only for close quarters, and lots of places the likelihood of being busted for violating gun laws is bigger than any advantage you'll get from the weapon itself. Wooden bullets? won't work, we've tried. If you've got a crossbow, well, you've only got one shot and you can forget about having time to reload, that just doesn't happen, and _any_ vamp can dodge a crossbow bolt if he can think fast enough to call on the right speed, so you only use a crossbow against one you've caught by surprise or from an angle where he can't see it coming.

"Swords are better, but really they only give you a better defense, if a vamp has room to move he'll always be able to avoid your swing faster than you can make it. What you _can_ do, if you're in a melee — only you're completely screwed if it ever comes to that — you can angle the swing to hit the vamp _behind_ your target when he skips out of the way. Desperation move, but terror is definitely the mother of invention …"

He stopped. He had their full attention, most of them fascinated with a few showing vague alarm (yep, it was the eye-patch at work again). "I could go on," he said to them. "And I will, but first I want to put this out up front. The number one rule for Slayers has always been, _Don't die._ They can't really follow it 'cause that would mean leaving the fight, which just isn't in their DNA, but that's still the idea: don't throw their lives away, keep surviving so they can keep doing their job. Well, we have a different rule: _Don't let the Slayer die._ And we can't manage that one, either, for pretty much the same reason, but we still have to give it everything we've got.

"These girls were called by fate. They didn't have a choice. We volunteered, though, every last one of us. We're in this because we're willing to do absolutely anything to keep our Slayers living for as long as we possibly can. If that means dying in their place, then we die. Accept that. Believe it. _Mean_ it. Because if you don't, you don't belong in this job, and I'll bounce you the hell back behind a desk the first moment I know about it. You can take that to the bank."


	2. Part 2

Part II

He came down the stairs with a folding chair under one arm, his free hand holding a paper sack. Nina stood up and advanced to the cage door; he was glad but not surprised to see that she was properly clothed now, in jeans and a loose shirt, even a pair of sneakers. "I'd know that smell even if I couldn't see the logo," she said. "You seriously found a _McDonald's_ in London?"

"Yep," Xander agreed. Disregarding the tape line, he approached close enough to hand her the bag. "I'd make the obligatory joke about them calling it MacDougal's over here, but Malcolm McDowell already pulled that one." At her blank look, he said, "Old movie, _Time After Time_. Well, not _old_ old, but 1979, back when Mary Steenburgen seems to have been vaguely babe-e-licious. And I could go on to demonstrate twenty times the geekishness I already have, but we've got other things we need to be talking about."

"Oh." Nina took the bag, returned to the bunk to take a seat. "So when I was, was wolfed out, did I —?"

"No, no," Xander said, waving it away. He opened out the folding chair and sat down, still well within her reach if she had felt like making a grab for him through the bars. (Demonstration of trust, calculated risk, whatever.) "At least, not that we could find, and from the timeline we've built up, it looks like you were caught less than ten minutes after you split from the theater. Our people are spinning up some spellworks that'll give us a better idea, but for now we're thinking we got lucky there." He sighed. "No, the complications we're looking at … Well, they come down basically to two things. First is the fact that you changed outside the full-moon cycle. That had the guys upstairs wondering if you might be something besides a standard werewolf. Anything to that?"

"Honestly, I don't know." Nina opened the McDonald's bag and pulled out a wrapped packet (that would be the quarter-pounder), but held it while she went on. "I'm not really part of any, um, community, the only thing I know about werewolves is what Angel told me."

"Right," Xander said. "Angel. That's sort of the second thing: officially, you were part of some kind of 'research project' at Wolfram & Hart's L.A. offices." At her puzzled expression, he said, "That's … not a good name in our circles. We count them as the bad guys. As in, not just our opposition, but bad people doing bad things for bad reasons. Which is, you know, bad."

Nina's expression went blank, and then her lips compressed. "All I know is how they treated me. They found me, protected me, explained what had happened, rescued me when — … Well, nobody did anything wrong that I ever saw." She set the wrapped burger down on the fold-down cot. "You've been straight with me, so I'm withholding judgment … but if you try to tell me Angel was evil, that's more likely to hurt your case than his as far as I'm concerned."

There was a very familiar undertone, not just to her words but to how she was saying them, and Xander sighed again. Women and vampires … Anne Rice had not done the world any favors, not when the real thing was around to take advantage of the romantic schlock. "Me and Angel were never best buds," he said to her. "Never close, and never gonna be. But we're not down on Wolfram & Hart because he was in charge of it: we're suspicious of him and his people because they went in with W&H." He leaned forward, speaking with low, earnest intensity. "Me and my friends … used to be, there were four of us at the core, and at one time or another he saved all our lives. I didn't like him and I didn't trust him and that hasn't changed, but I put my life in his hands more than once, and he always held up his end. Wolfram & Hart, though: they're not just evil, they _represent_ evil, they front for evil, they coordinate evil and help it be all organized and efficient. They provide evil with dental plans and stock options and retirement portfolios. And Angel took their offer to let him run the place, _knowing_ that they gave it to him because they figured they had a lot better chance of turning him bad than he did of turning them good."

He stood up from the chair, if only because he couldn't properly wave his arms while sitting. "Those guys, they're worse than demons, they're humans — most of them, technically — who help demons victimize other humans, and I'd burn their offices to the fucking ground if I ever got half a chance … and you were there and you were sponsored by those white-collar assholes and lady, what _you_ think of _me_ isn't even on the LIST of things I care about."

She sat regarding him, her face clear of expression, for almost a minute before saying, "Well, I can't fault you for not saying what's on your mind."

Xander let out a breath and quite a bit of tension, and sat down again. "Look, I got the guys upstairs to run as much of a check on you as we could in the last hour. Art student, living with your sister — who's a nurse — and helping look after your niece … Throwing in with demons doesn't match with driving a twelve-year-old Civic, especially when you keep driving it for months _after_ the evil law firm takes you under its wing. On paper, you look okay, and yeah, I know from experience that 'werewolf' doesn't automatically mean 'bad'. But, whether or not W&H managed to pull Angel over to the Dark Side, they were bad folks themselves. So, we've got concerns." He gave her a tilted look. "Also, there's the sudden Mexican vacation. A few of us are wondering about that."

Nina nodded. "He sent me away. Angel, I mean. Tickets for all of us, me and Jill and Amanda. He … I don't know what was going on, but I think something was about to happen, and he wanted us to be far away from it." She didn't actually move, but seemed somehow to shrink where she sat. "He said if he … if he made it through whatever it was, he'd come for me." She looked to Xander. "I heard about the things that happened in Los Angeles after I left, riots and deaths and mass hallucinations, the governor calling in the National Guard … and that was almost three months ago, so I guess that means he _didn't_ make it." Her eyes fell. "I came here for a break, for a change. I wasn't ready to go home yet, wasn't sure it was safe for me or Amanda or Jill, but the longer I stayed there, the more I couldn't think about anything except him being … gone."

Which brought up the next item on the agenda, the thing Xander had hoped he wouldn't have to go into. "Nina," he said, "I'm pretty sure I know something you don't … and some of it, I'm pretty sure you're not going to like."

~ – ~ – ~

Telling Nina that it had, in fact, been Angel who had captured her and brought her to one of the new Council's holdings, was every bit as awkward as Xander had anticipated. Not to mention that Deadboy was now out there, somewhere in London, 'reconnecting' with Buffy (and Spike, incredibly, also in the mix somehow). The quarter-pounder had to be stone-cold by this time, and he was debating whether it could be resuscitated with a microwave or if it was just time to play Taps. "Alive," Nina said at last. "Angel is alive."

"If you want to call it that," Xander said … then, at her look, "Sorry, can't help myself. Something about him just rubs me the wrong way. Always has. But I've got some idea how you feel about this."

"Do you?" Nina challenged. "He changed my life — no, he pulled my life back together when it had fallen out from under me. I knew he had commitment issues, but I was sure he … he cared for me as much as he was capable of caring. And he not only didn't come to me, like he said he would, he didn't even call to let me know he'd survived." All her calm couldn't hide the pain. "So, I guess that shows me about where I rate."

"No," Xander said. "These people, you can't judge them by any sane standard." She looked to him with what wasn't hope but clearly wanted to be, and he went on. "I've only heard rumors about what really went down in L.A., but it wasn't small potatoes. Anybody who got out of that … well, it might have taken them time to recover. And they might have had hunters after 'em, or thought they did, and didn't want to make any connection to you. Or Angel might even have gone into another of his self-torturing brood fits and felt like he didn't deserve to have somebody like you in his life, or that he'd just bring bad stuff into yours."

Nina dismissed that with an angry gesture. "None of those things stopped him from falling right back in with his old girlfriend."

_"Tell_ me about it!" Xander almost spat the words, and he reined himself in; apparently some wounds, no matter how old, never stopped aching. Once he was sure he had control again, he went on. "Like I said already, I have some idea how this feels. Angel split from Sunnydale in '99, and I don't think Buffy had seen him half a dozen times since, but the moment their paths cross again …" He shook his head. "They operate in a different reality, they warp each other into their own orbits, they make each other crazy and they make everybody around them crazy, and the only way to deal is to just sort of check out whenever they get together."

"It isn't that easy," Nina said.

"Never said it was," Xander agreed. "But it really is that simple. And for those of us on the sidelines of their grand drama, it's pretty much the only option we've got."

Nina drew a long breath, and said, "Okay. So what now?"

"Well," Xander said, "I've kinda let go of the thought that you might be some kind of experimental mutant werewolf Wolfram & Hart was trying out, and you may have changed on a non-full-moon night but you _did_ change back with the daylight, so I'll bring Godfrey down from the front desk and we'll let you out of here. After that, well …" Consulting with Willow would have been the obvious next step, but she was out making merry with Buffy and Angel and Spike. It wasn't that Xander had been deliberately excluded, Willow had promptly texted him the news and an invitation to join them, but that wasn't a reunion Xander was remotely interested in attending.

Angel was bad enough, but for the horrendous train wreck that had been _Spike_ to come locomoting into Buffy's life again … and, naturally, she'd jumped straight back onto the Insanity Express …

Xander stood up. "After that," he finished, "we'll wing it. We do a lot of that in the hero biz."

He started for the stairs, still considering the situation and the woman in the cell. Xander had a keen appreciation of women, but that appreciation had been conditioned by the ones who had figured most prominently in his life over the last several years. Buffy, Willow, Cordelia, Faith, even Anya … they weren't just lookers, they were lookers in a distinctive way. Nina was pretty in a more conventional fashion, and consequently quite a bit less interesting. All the same, Xander was beginning to get a sense of … sadness, and depth, and character, that went beyond the plastic attractiveness of cheerleaders and party girls. This was someone who had been yanked out of a comfortably normal life, and somehow found herself coping anyhow. Now, who did that remind him of …?

He had the door at the top of the stairs most of the way open before his eye registered what was in front of it, but his reaction was fortunately quicker than his perceptions; he pulled the door shut again (quickly, and quietly, not all the way because he didn't want the click of the lock to signal his presence), and soft-footed his way back down the stairs. "Back," he whispered forcefully to Nina. "Back away from the bars."

"What —?" she began.

_"Back!"_ he ordered, still in that harsh, urgent whisper, and she did as instructed. He was already at the door of the cell, turning the band of the watch on his wrist so that the back was facing outward. "Wil is going to be _so_ pissed," he muttered; with his thumb he sketched a downward-pointed triangle on his forehead and on the back of the watch. Then, still without raising his voice, he intoned, _"Chutu kaiith!"_

A blade of white light lanced out from the turned watch and past his closed fist, four inches wide and a foot long. Xander directed the blade against the upper hinge of the barred door, his gaze tense and concentrated. The metal resisted, the cutting light operating like a chainsaw through hardwood: effective, but not easy going. Xander forced it, powering through that hinge and then starting on the lower one. "What's happening?" Nina insisted.

"Shh!" he hissed; then, still pushing on the light-blade, he whispered, "Demons upstairs. Little ones, five feet or under, but I saw close to a dozen. Rodney was down, I think he was out cold instead of dead but we can't gamble that he managed to get an alarm out." The blade flickered and faded with an inch still uncut on the lower hinge. "Crap!" Xander breathed; then, grabbing the higher part of the door, he started wrenching it back and forth, trying to break the hinge remnant with angle and leverage.

Understanding, Nina seized the bars from her side and added her own efforts to his. The last part of the hinge snapped, and together they pulled the door away and propped it against the outer bars of the cell, rather than letting it fall with a clang that would have alerted the raiders upstairs. "This way," Xander murmured, leading Nina toward the open corridors opposite the stairs. She followed, swift and light, without objection or hesitation.

Not without question, however. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Away," Xander told her. "Away from whatever is happening upstairs. This place, it's warded, and the same stuff that shields us from scrying or spirit intrusion also blanks out cell phones. We have to get outside somehow."

"Do you know these tunnels?" she wanted to know.

He shook his head. "Till three hours ago, I didn't know there was a downstairs here. Two hours before _that,_ I didn't even know this building existed."

She let out a vexed breath. "Great." Then: "Who's Will, and why will he be pissed?"

"Wil," he corrected, still low-voiced. "Willow. We cover different parts of the world now but she's really protective. I'm, well, there's something about me that makes magic not stick so well, but she's managed to give me a few things that I can call on if I've got nothing else." He gestured with the spent watch, still turned outward. "This was the only one I happened to have with me, I didn't expect London to be as lively as the Kalahari Basin. And since it was only good for a minute, Wil would want me to save it for an emergency, for actual combat, but …" He made a what-can-you-do gesture, not easy while running.

This wasn't actually a tunnel complex, but a series of connected rooms, most of them cluttered with packed boxes or stacked furniture or other items there was no time to inspect. Only the steady low lighting allowed them to continue on with relative speed. Nina, he noted, seemed to be breathing a lot more evenly than he was. "The demons back there," she said. "Just before we made it into the tunnels, I could … it felt like I could … smell them."

_Ohnotgoodnotgoodnotgood._ "Wonderful." He tried to think through the implications while he struggled with a door that didn't want to budge: not locked, just stuck in the frame. Nina grabbed it and tore it open with impatient strength. Yet more wonderful. "There was something in the report," he said, wheezing just the least bit as they resumed their flight. "They, Buffy and Angel and Spike, they mentioned having a small problem with some minor demons while they were trying to carry you out. Yorkies, Tork-chucks … no, Tsjorkics. No big deal, but they put it in the report because Spike knew about these demons and he said they weren't usually combative. This …" He stopped talking long enough to catch a few breaths. "This could be a coincidence, entirely different groups of little demons, but I wouldn't be wanting to bet on it."

"But what would they want with me?" Nina wanted to know. "The only other time I ever dealt with anything like this …" Again that characteristic grimace. "It was humans, and I was supposed to be a gourmet treat at some underground fine-dining club."

"Please," Xander gasped. "I don't have time to barf here."

Moving from one door to another, they hadn't been able to follow a straight course, but now they came to what must have been a corner of the building. Another staircase led upward, narrow and stacked with boxes and small crates as if it were a set of shelves. Xander began pulling down the obstacles, still trying to operate quietly but moving more recklessly now, and Nina joined him. They cleared a path and forced their way upward and "They're coming," Nina said. "They're close."

Xander couldn't hear anything, but he didn't doubt her, didn't even wonder if she was being warned instead by smell or some inner awareness. He led the way up, checking the doors on successive floors: all locked, and solid, and even if they could have been broken open, it would have taken time he was afraid the two of them couldn't spare. "The roof," he said. "If this goes to the roof, if we can get outside, I can try to make a call."

The stairs led to the roof, but that door, too, was locked. It was also flimsier than the others; Nina shattered the lock with a kick, and as they emerged onto the tarred roof, she pushed the door closed again and braced herself against it. The differences that had been gradually accumulating in her were more obvious now: her movements had a feral quickness and fluidity, her eyes were dilated wide, and she looked to Xander with a direct intensity much like he had once been able to see from Oz. "We're here," she declared. "Try your phone."

Taking command, another difference. Xander pulled out his cell and hit the first number on speed-dial, still watching Nina. "You good?" he asked. "I can see something's happening with you; are you on top of it?"

She shook herself. "It's like last night," she said. "Not as strong, or maybe I just noticed it sooner —" The door shuddered as something crashed into it from the other side; Nina was jolted forward, but she set her feet and pushed back. "I've been watching myself," she said to him. "It … gets stronger, as they get closer, but I think I can hold it back in the daytime." Another crash, but her stance was solid now and this one didn't move her. "If I feel myself losing control, I'll jump off the roof. Don't worry —" This at his expression. "— it isn't far enough down to kill me, not if I'm even part wolf by the time I hit. But … that will leave you alone up here with them."

Xander looked at his phone. The readout said SERVICE NOT AVAILABLE. "Damn. I guess we're not far enough outside the wards." He ran around the edge of the roof, looking downward. "No fire escapes. Okay, I'll help you hold the door —"

"I wouldn't," she said. "I think it's, it's better if you keep a distance from me." Her vitality was increasing as he watched, that bristling intensity almost wreathing her in energy. "This … I can fight them, I know I can, if they break out you need to just get to that corner and stay out of the way —"

A multitude of impacts from behind her now, Nina was holding fast but the door itself was beginning to come apart. "They're a pack hierarchy," she panted. "It's all around them, it must be pheromones, it's their challenge time and that's only for them but I keyed in on it somehow —"

Xander looked around, questing desperately for any kind of weapon or tool. He was bare here, to make it through Heathrow he'd had to pack away all his custom gear and now he didn't even have a sheath knife. Over at the far edge of the roof a rickety TV antenna was secured: long obsolete now, abandoned, he ran over and twisted it one way and another until it came loose. Lightweight aluminum, no heft or tensile strength and almost useless but it was still _something_ …

"— and it brought me out, and they caught _my_ scent, we got mixed up with each other and now they have to confront the wolf —"

The door split and broke, and Nina jumped away to give herself room, swinging around to face the demon throng emerging. Xander had caught only a glimpse before, and a better look didn't improve the impression. A Tsjorkic was the size of the average female gymnast, with a gecko face and wattles like a turkey's under the ears and chin; each arm had two elbows, and the four-fingered hands were tipped with stubby nails that wouldn't really qualify as claws but looked like they could do some undesirable damage. Naked, all but sexless, covered in small purple scales (Buffy would have said lavender, or violet or mauve or some such) … individually no more formidable than a Rottweiler, but there were almost two dozen of them, and their focused determination was far more intimidating than any purely physical attribute.

Xander started forward with the antenna, and Nina lifted her hand in a peremptory gesture without looking around. "Don't," she said. "This is pack business. You'll only make it worse if you interfere."

He held his place, as commanded, but protested, "I can't let you take them all on by yourself."

"It won't come to that," she said, all her attention still directed at the Tsjorkics in front of her. "That isn't how it works."

A single Tsjorkic pushed its way to the front: three or four inches taller than most of the others, its shoulders thickset with muscle, scars prominent on its arms and face. Nina stepped back, giving ground, and the other Tsjorkics spread out to make a semicircle arcing around the two of them.

Xander had some memories of pack dynamics from his brief hyena experience, and he was beginning to understand. Keeping his voice low and soft, he asked, "They're seeing _you_ as the alpha challenger?" If so, that might mean she would only have to fight one of them. "But … if you take him on, and win, that would mean you're in charge of the pack, wouldn't it? Is that what you want?"

"It isn't," she answered in the same low tone. "It definitely isn't. Now stay back and stay quiet."

The lead Tsjorkic raised its arms and emitted a series of grunting coughs. Nina responded with a snarl. The leader hunched and straightened, hunched and straightened, and the sound it made could have been called a wail if not for the heavy underlying aggression. Nina hunched … but didn't straighten. Then she hunched more, then she crouched, then she went to her knees and rolled to lie on the tarred roof, hugging her arms to her chest and curving her body to expose her throat.

Xander watched, holding his breath. He got it now, it made sense, he might even have tried it himself in her place, but that didn't mean it wasn't a gamble. The leader stood motionless for several seconds, then padded forward. Xander saw that the toes were elongated, the nails at the ends thicker and more dangerous-looking. He gripped the antenna, tensing; if those nails went anywhere near Nina's throat … or, God! what if Tsjorkic pack imperatives demanded that the dominant male _mount_ any submissive female —?

The Tsjorkic leader placed its foot on her side, bore down until Xander could hear Nina's breath squeezed out of her. Then the leader raised its head and shrieked, like something that might have come from an eagle (if the damn thing was twelve feet tall!), and the surrounding Tsjorkics jumped and hooted in excitement. Then the scene broke, demon bodies streaming back out through the stairwell door, and Nina and Xander were left alone on the roof.

He waited. She waited. Then she rolled to her knees and stood again, body oriented toward the empty door while she glanced back toward him. There was tar on the back of her shirt, and the print of the Tsjorkic leader's foot showed plainly on her side; her complexion was splotched with tension and her hair was tousled and fell half-over her face, but her eyes were bright, bright.

She had been nothing more than a pretty girl: conventionally pretty, nice to look at but ordinary in her own way. There was nothing ordinary about her now. She had faced a pack of demons, and prevailed by yielding, and what she turned toward Xander was something he had seen many times before, on many many many women:

The face of a warrior.


	3. Part 3

Part III

Eight and a half months later, Xander was sitting at a small table in a sidewalk café on the Piazza della Repubblica in Orvieto, staring down at an espresso and silently cursing Andrew Wells with all the fervor in his soul. Against any sane expectation, the little ferret had turned out to be an excellent organizer, and even a good motivator in his own deeply weird way … but his sense of the dramatic would yet be the downfall of them all, and how was Xander supposed to straighten out _this_ mess? If he could just get Vi here, now, or maybe Kinue … Someone was approaching, he had as usual put the wall to his back so he could assess any newcomers, and even as Nina Ash was sitting down across from him, Xander's fingers found the silver stylus sheathed in an unobtrusively sewn fold in his right pant-leg.

Her smile was amused and warm. "Hello, Xander," she said to him. "I come in peace."

"Always nice to know," he answered agreeably. He still kept his hand on the stylus. Even if Nina herself was no threat (and he didn't honestly think she was), her appearance might mean other things were happening or about to be, and preparedness was generally to the good. "So, how's life been treating you?"

"Can't complain." She took off her sunglasses, regarded him with a slight tilt to her head. "I think I like the new look. Not as dashing, but maybe a bit less alarming. Forced healing, mystical replacement, glamour, or prosthetic?"

She meant the eye, of course. "Prosthetic," Xander told her, speaking as matter-of-factly as she had. "I don't really trust the mystical stuff … plus, like I said before, magic doesn't seem to stick to me anyway." He made a small gesture of dismissal. "I prefer the eye-patch when I'm roughing it — I have to take out _this_ thing and clean it on a regular basis — but I attract less notice this way. Which is usually a good thing." Actually, the prosthetic was a recent addition, he'd finally got the thing just before the self-imposed isolation/vacation in Scotland, and spent his brief time of solitude in the shepherd's hut getting used to it. "And what have you been up to yourself?"

She was dressed in a sleeveless blouse and denim shorts, with a white floppy sun-hat and a small backpack as accessories. This was neither the pretty but unremarkable girl he had first met, nor the alert, vital predator who had accompanied him down from the roof of the new Council's provisional admin offices, but someone who combined aspects of both. Too, there was something … relaxed about her now, as if some private concern had been put to rest and she was now comfortable with herself. "I spent a little time in Nepal," she said to him. "I found Oz, like you suggested, he really didn't want to be found but I was able to … sniff him out eventually." A quick smile. "It was a good idea. My case didn't exactly match his, but there was enough in common that I was able to learn a lot from him. And he's a good guy."

Xander nodded. "I miss him," he said. Then: "And how about your sister, and niece?"

"Back in Los Angeles," Nina said. "I took care of that before I left London; your new Watchers were able to confirm that it was safe for them to go home again." A sigh. "I wasn't able to do that. I don't know if I ever will be."

Xander considered that. "Because of —?"

_The wolf,_ he didn't finish, but Nina apparently caught the meaning. "Because too many things have changed. The life I used to have, ended more than a year ago, it was just a matter of whether my new life would be in the same place, doing most of the same things. Turns out, no." She looked down at the tabletop, and let the silence grow for a few seconds, then, "He did come to see me, you know. Angel. It was right after you left, you probably hadn't even got to the airport yet."

"So I made it out just in time, then." Xander caught her look, and added, "Yeah, I know. Issues. If you ever saw us together, you'd be able to tell I'm not the only one who has 'em." He sat back. "So?"

"It was a little strange," she said. "He was … apologetic, and repressed, and I could tell I'd be able to tie him to me if I wanted to, just because he was ashamed of how he'd behaved up till then …" She shook her head. "He was kidding himself, and that made me see I'd been doing the same. I could love him — I think I do, maybe — but I just don't believe that's what I need to be doing with my life." She gave Xander a sidelong look. "Also, _she_ was there. Buffy. All friendly and casual and chatty, and I didn't need any wolf's awareness to see the waves of 'MINE!' coming off her. Her, and Angel, and Spike too … what _is_ it with those three?"

Xander held up his hands. "I stuffed that question way back into the depths of never-go-there a long time ago. That way lies madness, or at least much banging of head against wall." He set his hands back on the table. "Okay, not going back to L.A., and not staying in London … so what brings you to sunny Umbria?"

Nina sat for several minutes without answering: not confused, not blocking him out, but taking her time to choose the words she wanted. "Because of my exposure to the Tsjorkic challenge-pheromones, I'm like Oz now," she said at last. "Not exactly like him, but we have that in common: I'm not tied to the lunar cycle anymore. Which is good, it means I don't have to lock myself up three nights a month now, but it also means I have to be … a lot more careful, all the time."

"Yeah," Xander said. "Upside, downside, I get that."

"We talked a lot, he and I." At Xander's expression, Nina grinned. "Yes, if you can believe it. This was a subject where we could see and share things that wouldn't make sense to anybody else — anybody normal — and it helped us both. The main thing, though, was what we _didn't_ have in common."

Xander tilted his head, studying her. "Which is?"

"He's male," Nina said. "I'm female."

"One of my favorite things about you," Xander agreed.

"I'm a female _wolf,"_ Nina clarified. "My imperatives aren't the same as his. I don't want the same things, and I don't respond in the same ways." Seeing that he didn't quite understand, not yet, she went on. "There was a time when I wished I had never learned about this world. That I could have just gone on, happily oblivious, not having to worry about apocalypses or demon possession or … or even werewolves and vampires. But I do know, and I can't pretend I don't, and there are things that need to be done and I have something to offer."

"Ah," Xander said.

"Right," she said, nodding. "You saw me, on the roof. It was being _pulled_ out of me, then, but I've learned to let it out, under control. I'm not Slayer level, but I can fight. And I know your organization always needs more people."

"Always," he agreed. "So, what, you want my backing, to talk them into letting you join up?"

"Not exactly." Her gaze met his, and the measured assessment in her eyes triggered a tickle of warning in him. "I told you I can control how much of the wolf I let out. I can, mostly. It's just, I know that if I keep pushing the boundaries — and I'll have to, if I get deep into supernatural operations — there will be times when that control will slip. When the wolf gets out all the way."

"Ow," Xander said. "Definitely not a good thing."

"Not the best outcome," Nina acknowledged. "But a female wolf isn't as … automatically aggressive, as a male. Her instincts are oriented more to protection than dominance. Oz and I think that, if I can establish the right kind of bond with someone, he can act as a brake on her, if she gets out. Keep her close, keep her calm, prevent any spontaneous rampages … I think you get the basic idea." She looked to him. "The thing is, what I'm talking about here is a mate-bond."

Xander's mouth dropped open, but miraculously he prevented anything idiotic from emerging. After a moment, he pulled himself back together and said, "Is this because I gave you my windbreaker? Because, seriously, that was just me being polite."

"I'm not actually proposing anything at this point," she reassured him. "We don't know each other anywhere near well enough. Right now, I'm just raising the subject." She leaned toward him. "If we think about it, and take the time to learn about each other, and spend some time working together … well, then we can decide if it looks like a good idea. What do you say?"

_And once again, more romantic than Faith._ Xander shook his head, and heard himself saying, "Have I mentioned that I'm having a very strange day?"

"Really?" Nina sat back. "How, exactly?"

"I don't know how much you know about Orvieto," Xander told her. "They have this … labyrinth, underground tunnels and chambers dug out of soft volcanic rock. Centuries old, really elaborate, and they only recently opened those out to guided tours."

Nina nodded understanding. "And?"

"And there's something down there," Xander said to her. "We don't know what yet, just vague reports, but something appearing and vanishing and we're not even sure if it's actually supernatural or just local kids pranking." (Please, let it not be a kraken wraith. That was one of the less likely possibilities, but definitely the least desirable.) "Our people were supposed to look it over, but the _total moron_ in charge of the Slayer team here decided that a fashion show would be just the _ideal_ cover for checking out the labyrinth …" He stopped, eyed Nina speculatively. "When you let out just a bit of your wild side, how's your sense of smell? Would it, for instance, be good enough for tracking through a bunch of underground tunnels?"

Nina thought about it. "Probably," she said. _"Very_ probably. So what do you have in mind?"

Xander waved for the waiter while they began to hash out the details, and ordered espresso for Nina. Then wine. Then lunch. They went over the possibilities in depth, and tacitly allowed the larger issue to remain hovering in the background, unspoken. For now.

They weren't making any decisions, not for a while yet. But a decision would come eventually … and maybe, just maybe, it could lead to something really good.

—

end


End file.
